


Your Heaven Beckons

by FiaMac



Series: Psycho Heroes [4]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Bottom Eames, M/M, Porn With Plot, Post-Inception, Top Arthur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2015-09-23
Packaged: 2018-04-23 02:29:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4859630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FiaMac/pseuds/FiaMac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Picks up immediately after "Impolitely". Arthur makes good on his threat of seeing if Eames can take it as well as he gives it.</p><p>"It’s late. Hell, by some people’s standards, it’s already morning. Not that Eames cares much either way seeing as how he’s naked in Arthur’s bed, in Arthur’s fancy hotel room, after the most glorious night of his debauched life."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Heaven Beckons

It’s late. Hell, by some people’s standards, it’s already morning. Not that Eames cares much either way seeing as how he’s naked in Arthur’s bed, in Arthur’s fancy hotel room, after the most glorious night of his debauched life.

He’d fucked Arthur again the minute they were through the door—this time face to face with Arthur’s long body atop him. He’d missed out on the visual joys their first go around, so Eames had left the lights blaring and positioned Arthur where he could bask in every freckle and trim muscle as Arthur moved enthusiastically on his cock. Then they’d ordered up the entire dessert menu from room service—something he’d always wanted to do at one of these posh joints—followed by a very sticky makeout session and mutual hand jobs in the shower.

Eventually they’d collapsed back into bed and were lying there now, tangled together in the warm glow of the bedside lamp, indolent caresses skimming flushed and bruised skin. It’s a tranquil moment, peaceful even.

Naturally, therefore, Eames is freaking the fuck out. Internally, of course, lest his delightfully affectionate bedmate take offense and knife him in the face.

Holding true to the time-honored practice of a man who’s enjoyed a fair share of hookups, this is the point where Eames would normally get dressed, make his goodbyes over a messy kiss, and get out before either he or his paramour got too comfortable. Sure, there might be some hard feelings if ever he crosses paths with said paramour again—which tends to happen when you sleep with your colleagues—but a quick exit and a few time zone changes usually keeps dramatic flare-ups to a minimum.

In truth, Eames wouldn’t mind the drama at all if it came with the right circumstances. Yes, he’s well aware of his playboy reputation. Has, in fact, cultivated a good deal of it quite deliberately. Honestly, he’s a sodding romantic of the worst kind. The all-or-nothing kind. He’s never wanted to get serious about anyone unless it’s the right one. The only one he’ll give his undying devotion to. Anything less would be—and he’s aware of the irony—just an imitation of the real thing. And how he’s longed for, ached for the real thing. So, until then, Eames prefers to keep things sweet and light. Skin-deep. Temporary.

Ergo his current moment of crisis.

This thing with Arthur has been... unexpected, to say the least. Everything about Arthur has been unexpected. From the first time he laid eyes on him, to the moment when Eames discovered his own feelings went deeper than flesh, and the events that finally got him into darling Arthur’s pants.

_I want to feel you for days._

It blows Eames’ mind that they could have been doing this years ago. It scares him that Arthur has, apparently, been his for the asking all this time, and he just never thought to ask.

But how could he have known? Distant, scowling Arthur. Who never looks at him twice unless it’s to make some sarcastic remark. Who disappears off the face of the earth between jobs and doesn’t even seem to exist outside of the work. Eames would know—he’s looked. Arthur, who scares the piss out of him, deep down on a visceral level. Sure, he’s pictured the man naked more than may be mentally healthy, strictly speaking, but it was always like fantasizing about a convicted serial killer. Dangerous and titillating and futile as shit. It has always been safest to keep Arthur in that carefully constructed role of prickly coworker, and to not think too much about said coworker’s prick.

Then Arthur opened his mouth and all sorts of glorious revelations came out. And Eames’ cock went in. Multiple times.

On no level is Eames prepared for this. Enthusiastic lover or no, Arthur is still, well... Arthur. Sociopaths don’t get reformed just because the sex is good. But damned if he’s about to give this up.

Plus, there’s an embarrassing possibility that Eames is actually physically incapable of walking away from Arthur after that last orgasm, hence his continued presence in Arthur’s bed.

Maybe he doesn’t need to figure it all out in one night. Because he’s completely fucked out and exhausted. Because the bed is soft and his bed partner is warm. And because Arthur said a lot of very interesting things this night, and Eames’ curiosity can’t be contained one second longer.

“So… when you said it’s been _a while..._  ” Out of all the confessions that Arthur has let loose, this is the one that’s circling his mind. Especially now, with Arthur’s hand on his half-hard cock, slowly stroking and playing with the foreskin—American men are cute like that—keeping his libido on simmer. Add the memory of the hot clench of Arthur’s ass, and he’s wishing he were ten years younger.

“Hmm,” Arthur nuzzles the underside of his jaw, clearly paying more attention to the feel of stubble on his tongue than the conversation. “After Fischer.”

Eames’ eyes pop open so fast his forehead twinges. “Love... that was a year ago.”

“Believe me, I’m well-aware,” Arthur’s wry voice is muffled as he kisses a path down Eames’ chest.

“Why—”

Arthur lifts his head and meets his gaze straight on. “I wanted _you_.” And then he dips back down to mouth at one of Eames’ nipples.

_None of them are you._

From anyone else, Eames might just consider that a declaration of undying devotion. But this is Arthur. And this is just a sex thing. Because, again, Arthur. But okay. Good. Fine. No reason to set himself up for disappointment. The important thing is that he’s _here now._ With _Arthur_. This is real, and reality has a hot tongue and tickly fingers. Reality is fucking fantastic. No need to bring wishful thinking into things. “Then why did you have a half-empty bottle of lube in you baggage?”

“Because I like to get myself off. And sometimes I like to get off by fucking my fingers.”

“Jesus.” Eames squirms, the mental image exploding across every synapse in his brain. It’s enough to make his tired cock lengthen to full arousal. Arthur demonstrates his appreciation for that feat by scraping his teeth across his nipple.

“But now, I’m going to fuck _you_.”

Not so much a surprise, that. Arthur had said as much earlier. However... “I don’t usually…” He _has_ , from time to time, when the situation and the right partner called for it. But in the general scheme of things, Eames tops and prefers it that way. “Been some time, anyway.”

“Good. Means you’ll _really_ feel it.”

“Of that, I have no doubt.” Because, again, this is _Arthur_ , the walking wet dream that Eames never allows himself to have. He’ll gladly take Arthur’s cock up his ass any day. At the moment, however, there is just one problem. “Not sure if I can come again.”

Arthur bites down less-than-gently. “Not sure if I’ll give you a choice.”

Bloody hell. “Talking big, love.”

“Are you implying I’m not big enough for you?” And heaven help him, Arthur grins. It’s a predatory, slightly evil grin, but there nonetheless.

Eames reaches up to finger a dimple and actually sighs. “One way to know.”

Arthur hums in pleasure and stretches out over Eames, lying between his legs. He continues to suck and bite on Eames’ nipples until both nubs are bright red and swollen. Eames summons enough wherewithal to strokes his hands through all that dark hair, shifting his hips up so he can rub his erection against the taut skin of Arthur’s belly.

Arthur starts to slide down his body, but Eames grabs his shoulders to halt the descent. “Seriously, though. _A year_. And nothing?”

Arthur scowls up at him. “You really want to discuss this now?”

Eames nods, fingers tightening on Arthur’s shoulders. “Strangely, yes.”

Arthur rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue. He resettles his weight on his elbows, apparently unfazed by Eames’ erection resting on his collarbone, and shrugs. “It’s really not as unusual as you might think. Not for me, at least.”

Eames scoffs. “Don’t tell me the job keeps you _that_ busy, pet. You’re far too lovely for that.”

And Arthur blushes. Honest to motherfucking Pete _blushes_. “It’s not entirely that. It’s a trust thing, you know.” He shrugs again, eyes down. He suddenly looks so young, so gentle, and Eames feels a pang in his chest. “Being with someone, even just long enough to get off. And it’s not like I surround myself with upstanding citizens. After a while, it just wasn’t worth the stress.”

Eames strokes his thumbs back and forth on Arthur’s skin, not fully understanding this impulse he has to soothe and reassure. Not understanding this _vulnerability_ in someone that makes grown men cringe on a regular basis. “Sex is supposed to relieve stress, not cause it.”

“Yeah, well, most one-night hookups hide wedding rings and STDs. Not garrote wires.”

Eames quirks a brow. “Is that experience speaking?”

Arthur smiles. “The wedding ring and attempted garroting, yes.”

Eames mentally files that story for revisiting. “So you’re saying you trust me to keep you alive, healthy, and marginally sin free?”

“Yes. Except the sinning part. I’m all for that.” Another smile, this one laced with heat, the tender ingenue melting back into the dark-eyed seducer. “Do you trust me?”

He returns the smile with his own lascivious grin. “With my life, certainly. It’s my virtue I’m a little concerned about right now.”

“As you should be.” Arthur leans down to dip his tongue in Eames’ navel. “Virtue is overrated.”

Arthur resumes his downward path. Eames lets his hands slide down to bed sheets and gets a good grip; something in those brown eyes tells him he’s going to need it.

Sure enough, Arthur bypasses his erection completely and nuzzles beneath to pull one of his balls into that hot mouth, then the other. Eames groans low in his throat. “Shit, that’s good.” Warm pressure, soft strokes. He shifts restlessly until Arthur wraps both arms around his thighs and holds tight. And then goes to town between his legs. And, holy shit, if it isn’t one of the hottest things anyone has ever done to him. Arthur uses tongue and teeth and firm suction to make him wet and achy, all the while moaning against his skin like he’s sucking on the world’s finest treat.

When Arthur finally detaches his mouth, Eames is ready to shove his cock past those swollen lips and be done with the foreplay. But Arthur evades his tentative thrust and licks a line up his pelvis. Nibbles on his hipbone while one of those clever hands glides up his thigh, zeroing in on that bundle of nerve endings under his balls, pressing down with strong fingers.

“Fuck.” Of course, Arthur would find it on the first go. Terrifyingly efficient in all things, he is. Eames gasps, feeling his toes curl into the sheets. “Arthur... god, _fuck.”_ He bucks his hips, not sure if he’s trying to move away from the pressure or ask for more. It doesn’t matter what he wants, though, because Arthur pins him down with a hand splayed across his belly and massages that spot with relentless strokes. “Arthur. Arthur, _please._ ”

“I _am_ pleasing you, Mr. Eames.” That caramel rich voice cuts through to his lust-soaked brain. Rough and always surprisingly deep.

Eames doesn’t remember closing his eyes, but he pries them open now and blinks against the lamp light. He needs to see the face attached to that voice. Like he needs his next breath, he needs to see Arthur’s face.

He thought he was familiar with Arthur’s intensity, but this is something worlds apart from what he’s used to. Tight lines around Arthur’s mouth, cheeks flushed, hair falling across his brow. Pupils blown, eyes nearly black. Arthur’s gaze is locked on Eames’ cock as he works him over, as tangible as touch.

Eames can’t help the low whimper that escapes him, nor the pulse of precome that drips onto the back of Arthur’s hand where it’s still braced on his abdomen. Arthur watches those silvery drops turn into a small puddle and moans, licking his lips. He presses harder against Eames’ prostate from the outside.

Eames’ head kicks back into the mattress. “Arth—fuck. Oh, god. Just—just _fuck_ me, already. Darling, please. Please, god, fuck. Fuck me, Arthur. _Arthur_.”

His legs are shaking by the time Arthur pulls away. Eames watches out of bleary eyes as Arthur fishes around in the bedsheets for the lube. He slicks his fingers up, unmindful of his own erection slapping him in the stomach. Eames looks at that beautiful prick and groans, knowing it’s about to be inside him. Long and full, with a thick cockhead that he knows is going to catch on the rim of his arse in the most delicious way. Then a hazy thought surfaces.

“We don’t have condoms.”

Arthur stills, eyes wide. Lets out a shuddering breath. “No,” he says in what is meant to be a steady voice. “I can just use my fingers. If you’re more comfortable with that.”

Eames shakes his head. He doesn’t even know why he said it. The last thing he wants is any barriers between him and Arthur’s bare flesh. “I—no. I want your cock.”

Arthur edges closer, kneeling between his legs. “Do you want me to pull out?”

Eames considers him for a moment. “You would, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course.” Arthur smiles and frowns at the same time, an expression unique to him and one that Eames rather adores.

“But that’s not what you want.”

A myriad of expressions flicker across Arthur’s face. “No.”

Eames tightens his fists in the bedsheets. “Good. Me neither.” He grins then, eager to move past this bit of awkwardness. “Not this time, anyway,” he croons. “Later, we could have some fun with that, yeah? Since you’ve already proven you’re not squeamish.”

Arthur arches a brow, mouth twitching. “You’re a filthy man, Mr. Eames.” He punctuates that statement by running his fingers along the cleft of Eames’ ass.

“God, yes. Come be dirty with me.” He spreads his legs wider and cants his hips up in invitation.

“Thought you’d never ask.”

Arthur brings those slippery fingers to his hole and rubs firmly, not pushing in yet, just working lube into the furled entrance with tight circles. Eames relaxes into the sensation, feeling himself open up as Arthur gradually increases the pressure. The first finger slides in without fanfare. Arthur adds more lube and gentle fucks it into him. The second finger burns enough to make his breath hitch. He reminds himself to breathe, focuses on the way Arthur’s tongue runs up his ribs and across his chest to play with his sensitive nipples. The chaffing almost distracts him from the sting in his arse. “Won’t be able to wear shirts for a week, you keep that up.”

“Your shirts are a travesty. I’d rather just keep you naked.”

“Works for me.” He gasps on a full-body twitch. “Fuck, Arthur.”

Arthur bites down on his shoulder when he jolts a second time. Nibbles along his collarbone. “It’s just three. You can handle three fingers. Relax for me, baby.”

“Cheeky twat. Oh, god.”

Arthur works him open, gentle but insistent. Sometimes grazing his prostate. Sometimes just scissoring his fingers to stretch him wide. Eames moans and moves against his hand, heels digging into the mattress for leverage.

Arthur pulls away and reaches for the lube again. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.” He stills doesn’t think he’ll be coming anytime soon, but Arthur’s efforts are more than enjoyable. Sex with Arthur has never been about the orgasms, after all, though he would like to tell himself otherwise.

Arthur slathers a good dose of lube over his cock and braces himself over Eames. Just like with all things, he doesn’t hesitate or fumble when he fits the head of his erection against Eames’ hole. Uses that indomitable will to push in with one torturously slow stroke. Pressing, stretching, taking over. Eames pants, trying to breathe through the conflicting sensations of pain and pleasure, and Arthur doesn’t stop until his balls are resting against his ass.

Eames shudders. All that hard length is inside of him. _Arthur_ is inside of him. 

Arthur swivels his hips a few times, grinding deep, before pulling back a little. “There you go,” he murmurs in a husky voice. Arthur traces a finger around his cock-stretched opening, eyes smoldering at the sight. “Perfect fit.”

And, god yes, it is perfect. So full and hard inside him, he swears he can feel Arthur’s shaft throbbing within him. And then Arthur _moves_.

Eames has watched Arthur fight, run, even dance a few memorable times. He’s seen the lissome way that body moves with grace and astonishing power. To have all of that, now, focused on his tight opening… Eames takes hold of Arthur’s shoulders and clings desperately as Arthur thrusts in and out, again and again. Each stroke is smooth and long, like a steady wave pushing him higher and higher up that peak of pleasure. Eames lets it wash over him, filling his senses with the feel of the lean body between his thighs, the sounds of Arthur’s heavy breaths and his own needy cries.

Then Arthur hitches Eames’ leg high up on his hip and suddenly every thrust is hitting his prostate. The sensation is unerring and unapologetic. Arthur’s cock is just _there._ Running along electrified nerves without mercy. The pleasure rockets straight from a warm wave to a fiery storm, crashing through every inch of his body. It’s too much—and just exactly right. Eames feels his mouth fall open on a protracted moan, shocked to find himself falling over the edge of orgasm for the fourth time that night. His balls feel like they’re being squeezed by a hot fist, and it’s the sweet kind of hurt that makes his mouth water and his eyes sting. His entire body tightens, cock pulsing, arse clenching.

“Fuck.” Arthur’s rhythm stutters when he feels Eames’ clamp down on him. Grace and control vanish as he moves faster, harder, rougher. Eames is too fried to do more than lie there blissfully and enjoy the view as Arthur thrusts his way to his own release, jaw clenched and dark gaze locked on the pearly ropes of come streaking across Eames’ torso. Without missing a beat of his hips, Arthur leans forward and licks a drop of come from Eames’ nipple, and it’s either the change in angle or the bitter tang on his tongue proves Arthur’s undoing.

“Eames. _Eames—fuck_.” Arthur’s body gives a final shiver, and then his hips are bucking hard, balls slapping against Eames’ ass as he strives to bury every inch of himself inside Eames’ gripping channel. _“Fuck.”_

Suddenly Eames finds himself with an armful of sweaty, quivering limbs as Arthur rather inelegantly falls on top of him. Arthur rests his face against Eames’ neck, breath hot and damp against his skin. He’s surprisingly heavy, but Eames is numb from the waist down and the neck up, so he figures Arthur can stay as he is for a bit.

After a lifetime, Arthur summons enough strength in his trembling arms to separate their bodies and flop down next to him. “Sinning is fabulous.”

Eames attempts to nod but mostly ends up biting his tongue. “Sinning is fucking awesome.” Even if he is pretty sure that last round broke his dick. He’ll live the rest of his days as a broke-dick eunuch, but it will be so completely worth it.

Hours ago, he didn’t really know how this night was going to end. He certainly didn’t expect to find himself in bed with Arthur wrapped tightly around him from behind. Arthur as a cuddler stupefies him just about as much as the shattering orgasms had. If he could move—and provided he could locate his trousers amidst the scattered clothing—he would have checked his totem. Then again, if this is all a dream then he’s in no hurry to wake up.

He settles in to bask in the post-coital glow, but Arthur squirms around like he’s got something on his mind. “What is it, love?”

Breaths puff against the back of his neck as Arthur starts and stops a few times before finally asking, “Do you want this?”

Eames chuckles. “You’re just now asking?” And he knows it’s a mistake when Arthur tenses.

“I don’t—I don’t mean a one-off kind of thing.” It’s not Arthur’s tone so much as the lack of one that sets of internal alarms. “That’s… not how I’m wired. But I need you to be sure.”

_I can’t lose myself like this._

Eames strokes Arthur’s arms until he starts to relax, but it’s mostly to give himself time to think. A large, very insistent part of him—the part that has kept him whole throughout his childhood and bad decisions, years of soldiering and con work—is telling him to cut and run before things get too mired. Warns him that saying yes will ultimately ruin them both. But he suspects that, if he says no, he’ll wake up to an empty bed, and the next time fate or work brings them together, he’ll see a polite stranger looking out at him from those dark eyes. The thought creates a small surge of panic within him.

_I need you._

“I’m sure.”

Arthur’s hold tightens. “Okay,” he whispers. He touches a soft kiss to Eames’ neck before falling silent, breath easing out into the measured pace of sleep.

Eames fumbles blindly and manages to turn off the light through the expediency of knocking the lamp over. But he doesn’t sleep. He’s exhausted, yeah, but his skin is still buzzing too much for him to sleep just yet. Instead, he cruises in a liminal state of half-sleep, mind blissfully vacant. He’s calm, peaceful.

Until about an hour later, when Arthur’s hands start to wander in the dark. Why, then he’s positively scandalized. “Absolutely _not_.”

“Just one more.” A hot tongue streaks along his ear.

“Savage,” he charges, wiggling out of Arthur’s grasp. “Didn’t figure you as the greedy sort, pet.”

“Quite the opposite,” Arthur nibbles along his throat, and Eames can feel the words vibrate beneath his skin. “I want everything.”

It takes a few death threats and some unmanly whimpering, but Eames manages to convince his new lover to wait until morning. As he falls asleep at last, he resolves to embrace things at face value. Arthur wants him. Arthur trusts him. It’s not undying devotion—but it will more than do. For now, anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from "The Bottom Line" by Depeche Mode.
> 
> Look for the [Psycho Heroes Soundtrack](https://open.spotify.com/user/qvxh3o4rvca6soodo82lagqt8/playlist/2TOcGz53b6ONaVS8Q3gIGZ) on Spotify!


End file.
